Chapter 2
Flora Granger looks up from her crossword just as that nurse from three houses up stomps down the hill. Scooting across the window seat to get closer to the living room window, she watches as the nurse stops and zips up her red anorak, her blonde curls whipping round her chin. Funny, she normally gets in her car and drives off of a morning. No uniform, either? Flora wonders where she’s going. Maybe she’s just having a day off, but on second thought, she’s not had a Monday off before, as far as Flora remembers. Flora prides herself on her good memory. At seventy-seven, she’d bet she’d give a much younger person a run for their money in the memory stakes. She’s sure this is all down to her teaching background, and the fact that her brain is kept active. Use it, or lose it, as they say nowadays. She uses it in the shape of crosswords, reading, taking a keen interest in current affairs, and in the local community.
Flora watches until the nurse turns the corner at the bottom of the hill, then takes her empty cup and saucer into the kitchen. It is her considered opinion that the nurse was going to the beach. She had that bouncy step and lightness of being about her that people often take with them when they go to the cove, along with their dogs, and sometimes picnics in more clement weather. Flora knows that she’s always had good observation skills, along with powers of memory. Some might say that taking this level of interest in her local community could be seen as nosiness. She would disagree. Take the nurse, for example. If anything untoward were to befall the woman at the beach (God forbid), Flora would be able to inform the police about the date, time and what type of clothing she was wearing when last seen. That kind of evidence could be crucial in an inquiry.
She rinses the cup and saucer and puts them to drain, then wipes some crumbs from the kitchen table she missed earlier. Her memory is good, but her eyesight could be better. Now. What to do with the rest of the day? Library or coffee shop? As she ponders, she notices the calendar on the kitchen wall. It tells her she’s been in this little cottage for a whole month. A month of adapting, adjusting and fitting in. Flora acknowledges that it hasn’t been plain sailing, but at last she feels her little boat is heading to safe harbour. She isn’t ready to drop anchor yet, but she will be. When she left Truro, lifelong friends told her she was mad to uproot and leave at her age. Flora knew otherwise though, and much as she regretted it, realised it was actually because of her age that she soon wouldn’t be able to cope very well in the old house. Big, draughty and in need of repair, the house had to go – well, she had to leave it, to be precise. Though Flora was born in it and had lived there all her life, she couldn’t afford to be sentimental. Flora Granger was always a practical and forward thinker. She joked to her friends they should write that on her headstone when they brought arguments for her staying put to her door, along with worried faces and downturned mouths.
In front of her bedroom mirror, she holds a multicoloured kaftan to her chest and does a few steps to the side and back, a quick one-two-three waltz. Perhaps she’ll join the dance class she saw advertised on the church noticeboard last week. It was entitled Strictly Fever in shouty red letters, and had a variety of colourful cartoon people jiving, waltzing and doing the tango. Flora likes the idea of learning the tango, but who would partner her? Maybe they provide them as part of the class. She slips the kaftan on and re-applies the kohl pencil lines under her eyelashes, then adds a slash of crimson to her lips. Flora is satisfied with her appearance, though maybe the pink streak along one side of her long grey hair could be replaced by lilac. It’s almost spring, so it would fit in nicely with the flowers in her garden. Then she remembers she no longer has a garden – just a tiny terrace with a few pots. Never mind, she’s beside the sea and that’s the main thing. Isn’t it?
The library has won the toss-up between it and the coffee shop, but perhaps she’ll have a coffee afterwards, if she doesn’t spend too long reading in her usual spot next to the window. Flora smiles at this. ‘Usual’ is actually twice. But thinking of it as a spot she frequents makes her feel like she belongs here more. Makes her new life seem less alien. And after all, it is a very welcoming spot. Even on cloudy days, the sun tends to sneak through the pane and warm her face. She’s quite at home there. And isn’t there something in the back of her mind saying that there was an advert in the local paper for a part-time librarian? Now, that would be ideal. Although renown for taking an active part in her community … that was then, she reminds herself. Once retired, the Flora in Truro had built up a whole raft of people who she saw on a regular basis. All from different walks of life, personalities gathered from the diverse interests and activities she’s pursued. The Flora here, needs to be seen. She needs to be doing things. Become someone who people can depend on – learn from. Flora has always been someone’s point of reference, but right now, she’s a bit like a lighthouse without a light. She furrows her brows at that image, takes her yellow mac from the peg and shrugs it on. At the end of her path, she wrests her hair from the wind and looks towards the sea. No sign of that nurse. Flora hopes she’s not been blown away.